"Immature poets imitate, mature poets steal."
Maybe Picasso stole that concept from T. S. Elliot—or maybe neither of 'em said it.
Either way my confession is this: I am both a thief and an imitator
of my father.
The best parts of me are simply echoes of my dad. He's still showing
me patience after all these years—still showing me how to love the
folks that insult me. And so the song remains the same: though I'm a
few inches taller than my dad, he remains a much bigger man than I.
So you see my predicament in writing this forward: I am the shadow
asked to introduce the object who has cast it. I am the cartoon
asked to introduce the real thing. To usher in his words with my own
could be a bit redundant.
So I shall begin by talking about everything that is not written in
this book, the things between the lines, the shadows that only a son
can know. The early morning surf sessions at Pipes. The late morning
philosophy chats at Swami's. Staring at the stars and talking about
how quickly time passes. He was there even during the broken times
when nothing was right. My dad, to my amazement, has always been
the man who won't try to fix me, just love me.
I am so proud of him. Stories I hear of my dad remind me of other
heroes of mine. Stories like the time when he gave his minivan to a
band who was broken down on the side of the road; he'd never met
them before but they needed a car. Times when he stood strong and
tall in the face of opposition. There's a friend of mine who said her
main reason for belief in God was knowing my folks. No joke. I know
what she means though; we see what God is like in the faces of those
around us. And though my dad has his flaws like everyone else, I often
see God though him, through the things he says and does. And now,
through what he has written.
With the word "wholeness" trapped in the ether of the tabloids, it
can be a dangerous thing to write about—particularly risky stuff for a
pastor. Yet it was The Teacher himself who was deeply concerned
about our entire being. He lived and died that the broken would
know wholeness. "For whoever wants to save his life will lose it, but
whoever loses his life for me and for the gospel will save it." Blessed
are the broken, for they will be made whole.
I have learned so much about this strange, inverse relationship from
my dad. I feel like he embodies it better than anyone I know. In some
ways this book doesn't do his life justice—it's like a band's studio
record that can't quite capture the live experience. Though these
pages are quite an album in and of themselves, I've seen the live show
all my life.
My father's "music" often came to me in the form of an ongoing
dialogue. A few hours ago, I had a conversation with one of the most
inspiring musicians I've ever met. He was telling me about a church
that had kicked him out, an experience that deeply wounded him. I
know what that feels like, to be misunderstood and abused by the
folks who are supposed to be loving you—fighting for you. I've had
many great conversations with my dad about this. He says the church
is like your extended family, crazy second uncles and cousins that
might drive you mad. But they are still your family; and they are the
only family you'll ever get. You have the privilege of loving them.
Yes, the church is beat-up, ugly, and splintered. Even wrong at
times. Tele-evangelists, bigots, hypocrites ... yup. It's easy to take
shots at the church. So in the age of American individualism and personal
salvation, there is the temptation to disown the whole lot and
reinvent the wheel. "We'll start fresh!" And yet to think that we're
going to be the first church that gets it right is ludicrous. We're never
going to find "Christian wholeness" on our own, not without loving
the folks around us.
Yes, the church is broken. It's always been broken. We are a body
of misfits, losers, misdirected souls who are desperate for healing. But
let the hospital never abandon the sick patients; let the church never
abandon the broken. The broken are the bride of Christ—the broken
are our family. We, the damaged souls, are the church.
So in this cacophony of brokenness I often look to my dad's words
to figure out how to heal. How to grow. How to become more
whole. And his words always point me back to The Teacher of wholeness,
the only one who can bring peace. The one who came so that
we could have whole life, abundant life, and I am thirsty for this life
he gives.
In this broken world we face sorrow. We face death and pain. We
face the horrors of our own shattered humanity. But our yearning for
wholeness is beneath it all; we will be satisfied in God alone. In this
longing, I am an immature poet aping God when I try to find wholeness
in and of myself. I must continually be reminded to find peace in
the Father of the heavens alone.
For this, I'll keep stealing from my dad."
- Jon Foreman frontman for Switchfoot
We are a beautiful letdown,
Painfully uncool,
The church of the dropouts
The losers, the sinners, the failures and the fools
Oh what a beautiful let down
Are we salt in the wound
Let us sing one true tune
Words to a song that my brother wrote, a song that we've
played hundreds of times, all over the world. And yet,
they still resonate deeply within my soul. What a broken
people we are. Spending most of my formative years growing up in
the laid-back surf culture of north county, San Diego, I am very familiar
with the growing search for a remedy. Answers are seemingly
found within the bulletin boards, flyers, books, and pamphlets in
nearly every storefront shop or cafe. And yet, as the number of remedies
increases, ironically so does the demand. There is obviously a
large disconnect here.
This observation is not limited to my hometown, however. As a
touring musician, I've enjoyed the opportunity to travel throughout
the world. I love seeing things from a new vantage point—experiencing
other cultures, food, music, waves and everything else along the
way. In all these travels it becomes clear that while the desire for
wholeness is certainly nothing new, there is a growing global awareness
of our brokenness and a newfound urgency towards restoration.
Of course, if I'm truly seeking evidence of our innate human need for
wholeness, I need look no further than the confines of my own heart.
This is why we sing. Singing allows us safe passage through the
treacherous waters of the soul. Our hopes and fears, our doubts and
our beliefs—these are frightening caves to explore, and even worse to
talk about. But in a song, all matter is fair game. "We are a beautiful
letdown ... the church of the dropouts, the losers, the sinners, the failures
and the fools." It's an all-too accurate description of humanity
when we try to fix ourselves. "Oh what a beautiful letdown... Let us
sing one true tune!" For me, the letdown is the painful reality that no
matter how hard I try, I am quite unable to fix myself. I am in desperate
need of a savior. But what a beautiful truth. There is such freedom
in our surrender to Wholly Jesus, who's offer to us is nothing less than
complete wholeness. This is the Beautiful Letdown.
***
When my Dad asked Jon and I to write a response to his book, it
made me smile. I play rock and roll for a living. What could I possibly
say to add to the well-chosen words of my Dad, one of my greatest
heroes. Definitely a tall order. My Dad has, without a doubt,
played a huge role in shaping who I am and the worldview that I
carry. This is the guy who pulled the car over when we heard U2's
"Still haven't found what I'm looking for" on the radio for the first
time. This is the Dad who introduced me to the magical worlds of
Tolkien, Lewis, and MacDonald. The guy who pushed me into my
first wave on a surfboard, and the guy who taught me how to play
Zeppelin and the Beatles. But perhaps larger than all of these influences,
I'm thankful that he allowed me the freedom to explore, make
mistakes, dream big dreams, and ask even bigger questions.
No question was ever too big or too small—no dialogue was offlimits.
I knew that my Dad's God was a big God, one who wasn't
intimidated by my doubts, my questions, my music or my hairstyle.
None of these were frightening to the God he knew (although I'm
sure some of my hairstyles should have been). But it gets better. Not
only was God Almighty not scared by my music, doubts or questions—
He was interested in them. He actually wanted to hear that
warbly, pre-pubescent imitation of Robert Plant singing Stairway to
Heaven. This is the Jesus I was introduced to as a kid: a Wholly Jesus,
fully integrated with all aspects of life, culture and even the darkest
aspects of my soul.
***
I remember one Sunday message in particular that my Dad taught,
titled, "No Thin Jesus." The title really sums it up. There is nowhere
I can go that is beyond the reaches of redemption. There is no music
venue, no song, no lyric that is outside the sphere of this Wholly
Jesus. When we started this band called Switchfoot, this is why we saw
no disconnect between playing our songs in a bar or in a church.
These were honest songs about hope, doubt, failure and redemption:
the broken human condition and the universal longing to be whole.
These were songs that needed to be sung in bars, coffee shops, colleges,
churches and everywhere else.
They needed to be sung because Jesus' invasion of wholeness is passionate
and robust, desiring to integrate all aspects of humanity with
himself. So the question that now remains is this: "Where are you
gonna go? Salvation is here!"
- Tim Foreman, bassist for Switchfoot
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